


The Missing Quarterback

by fandomnumbergenerator



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Anal Sex, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, John probably has prosopagnosia, M/M, Not the safest sex, References to HIV/AIDS, San Francisco, Story: The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-09 21:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15276747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomnumbergenerator/pseuds/fandomnumbergenerator
Summary: Sherlock leaned on the desk and lit a cigarette with an old zippo that had appeared out of his very well tailored pants. His hands were mesmerizing, like a close-up magician or a three-card monte con man.John was fucked. In theory, Sherlock was not his type. Too pretty. Too gay. But Sherlock was also weirdlysui generis, like he could have been a poorly disguised alien, and it was very hard to stop looking at him.[John and Sherlock meet in the San Francisco of my youth.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had written myself into a corner on a previous version of this story, and [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/), whose beta services I won in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2018 auction, helped me rewrite and restructure it into something I was able to finish. Thank you so much for all your thoughtful help!
> 
> Thank you also to [Queertrees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queertrees) for betaing.
> 
> Several chapters of this story were originally posted as 221b Haight Street, but those chapters have had some major revisions, so I'm reposting the whole thing as a new piece.
> 
> Also, for this fic, I am imagining Sherlock as mixed race Chinese American. I really cannot figure out how to tag that appropriately. There are zero fics tagged PoC!Sherlock or Asian!Sherlock, so if anyone knows how I should be tagging this, please let me know.

San Francisco in January was depressing as fuck. Or at least John’s little corner of San Francisco, an SRO on Jones Street, was.

Outside, it was dark and rainy, sheets of water pouring down the street, and inside, it was just him and the cockroaches, staring each other down at 3 in the morning.

He was living off frozen dinners, which tasted mostly of damp salty cardboard. Probably better than MREs, but not by much.

He tried to exhaust himself with sit-ups and pushups. Like he was in prison. But still he rarely slept through the night.

He never talked to his neighbors. Everyone in the building was broken — old, crazy, used up — and it was hard not to feel like he fit in just a little too well.

He had a PO box down on Golden Gate, but he was avoiding it. Throwing out anything that wasn’t a check. Anything that looked like someone trying to get back in touch.

He’d started going to the Mini Adult Theater up the block, to at least get out of that tiny room. It was cheap and warm and dry, and, in its own way, social. He started to recognize the other regulars, and they recognized him. Most of them looked about as worn down as he felt.

Except for the kid he’d seen one time, leaning against the wall in the lobby, talking to one of the regulars. The kid was tall and skinny with a mop of greasy black hair, maybe Latino, but very young. And pure hustler, with the kind of bleach stains on his too tight jeans that John had seen on teen runaways at the abscess clinic, a million years ago, when he was an up and coming doctor. The kind of bleach stains that meant someone was an injection drug user and didn’t care who knew it, but also that they knew enough about HIV to bleach their needles.

He guy caught John looking and made a show of looking back, calculating, but with a spark of interest. And then he’d winked.

And John wasn’t sure if it was pathetic how many times he’d jerked off thinking of that look, or if maybe it was a good sign that he could get off at all, because he’d been a little worried there for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> This story is set more or less in 1996, though there are a lot of things that may be anachronistic by one or two years. I pulled details from approximately 1994-2003, the years I was living in San Francisco.
> 
> There have been men’s boarding houses in San Francisco since the Gold Rush. More information about their history and the efforts to block their demolition here: https://www.ccsroc.net/s-r-o-hotels-in-san-francisco/
> 
> My inspiration for the conviviality of porn theaters is from Samuel R Delaney’s Times Square Red, Times Square Blue. You can read a 1996 review the Mini Adult here: http://www.sfweekly.com/news/behind-the-scenes-2/
> 
> HIV rates among injection drug users on the west coast never got as high as they were in NYC (HIV seroprevalence among IDU in NYC was 50% in1991). The best explanation I’ve heard for the difference is that west coast tar heroin jams needles and ruins veins faster pushing people towards intramuscular injection, which means less blood in needles but a much higher risk of abscess.
> 
> Syringe exchange was legalized in San Francisco in 1992 as a response to the “state of emergency”: http://sfaf.org/client-services/syringe-access/history-of-needle-exchange.html
> 
> The SFGH ISIS Wound Care Clinic wasn't actually established until 2000: https://www.sfgate.com/health/amp/Clinic-nurses-addicts-wounds-S-F-General-2878488.php


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I somehow didn't post this chapter?
> 
> So, I'm putting it in as the new Chapter 2

There was a knock on his door. Which was weird, since rent wasn’t due for three more days. And visitors weren’t allowed, even if there had been anyone to visit him.

Suddenly full of adrenaline, John pressed himself against the wall next to the door, cane in hand, ready to bludgeon whoever it was if they tried to kick down the door.

“Hey John, it’s Mike. Mike Stamford, from UCSF. Let me in. Please.”

John took a couple deep breaths, and unbolted the door. “What are you doing here?” It came out sharper and more accusatory than he’d meant it to.

“John, I heard you were back from Yugoslavia, but no one’s been able to find you,” said Mike.

“It’s not called Yugoslavia any more,” John said gruffly.

“Sure. But I found you. And not in the morgue.” John raised an eyebrow and looked around his room, wondering if he was any better off. But Mike continued, “My letters started getting returned. I got a private eye and everything.”

John barked out a laugh, “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. Who’d pay to find me?”

“Come on, John. Let me get you a coffee. I want you to meet the guy who tracked you down.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Listen,” Mike said, “I’m worried about you. You’ve gotta get out of this SRO. Out of the Tenderloin. He needs a roommate. It’s rent controlled. You’ve got to at least see it.” John said, “I don’t really think I’m roommate material,” but Mike just grinned like some kind of possessed cherub.


	3. Chapter 3

They took the number 7 bus up to Haight and Fillmore, and Mike led the way to a grimy cafe with smoke-stained walls and chess boards painted on the tables. Full of scruffy old Beats, kids with weird hair, and a couple guys who were clearly sleeping rough.

Mike led him to the back, where a man with a sharp suit and a Frasier Crane accent was holding court. A girl in an extremely short plaid kilt was showing him her bruised ass.

"Of course he didn't train under Mistress Irene. Even if she took an apprentices, which she doesn’t, she wouldn’t train a man. Your man is a manipulative asshole and a danger to himself and others with that riding crop. You're taking your life in your hands if you play with him again." The girl turned around to argue, but clearly saw something in the man's face that shut her up.

Mike cleared his throat and said, “Sherlock.”

The man turned around, gave Mike a quick nod, and looked intently at John. He had floppy black hair and a sort of Slavic face, all cheekbones and sharp eyes. There was something weirdly familiar about him. John was terrible at faces even in the best of times, but he was pretty sure he’d remember if he’d met someone who looked like that.

“So, Mike found you. The flat’s upstairs. Get a coffee and I’ll show you your room.”

“I’m not actually looking for a roommate,” John said.

“Yes, but I am. And I told Mike I’d waive my fee if his mystery soldier could put up with me for a month.”

John gave Mike a sharp look, _What have you gotten me into?_ , and Mike gave him that same stupid grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This coffee shop is based on the long departed, and much missed Horse Shoe. If I were to write a Coffee shop AU, it would be set in the Horse Shoe, where I met one boyfriend and many friends, casual hook-ups, and drug connections.


	4. Chapter 4

Once John had limped his way up the stairs, he saw that the apartment had mostly been converted into an office. It was nice--old-fashioned, with wood floors and big bay windows, but so messy that it gave John a headache. Every surface was strewn with piles of papers, display cases of bones and insects, chemical equipment. In the center of the room was a giant oak desk covered with papers, overflowing ashtrays, and opened books stacked one on top of the other. At the front of the desk was an old fashioned name plate that said “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective”.

Sherlock leaned on the desk and lit a cigarette with an old zippo that had appeared out of his very well tailored pants. His hands were mesmerizing, like a close-up magician or a three-card monte con man.

John was fucked. In theory, Sherlock was not his type. Too pretty. Too gay. But Sherlock was also weirdly sui generis, like he could have been a poorly disguised alien, and it was very hard to stop looking at him. His hands, his hair, his neck.

John was only saved by the buzzer.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock took his time getting to the intercom, and the buzzing did not let up the entire time. Sherlock looked over at John and rolled his eyes, like John was in on the joke.

“People who buzz like that are usually idiots.” Sherlock looked out the window for a second, then buzzed the downstairs door, and John heard heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.

An older man, heavily built, like he had once been an athlete, but was now both thinner and fatter. His face was ruddy and flushed.

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” He was talking fast, still panting from the stairs, but trying to cover it up. ”I’m Cy Overton. I’ve heard you’re the best. And Godfrey Staunton disappeared after practice last night.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and said archly, “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

The man looked flustered and angry, and Sherlock gave John a sly wink.

“He’s the Bear’s quarterback! The Stanford game is on Sunday. This isn’t a joke!” The man was turning red and starting to yell. “I thought you were a fucking genius.”

John jumped up, and clenches his fists at his side. But Sherlock seemed to relax, his eyes going half lidded as he said, very slowly, “I am a fucking genius, and you need my help.”


	6. Chapter 6

There was nothing overtly suspicious in Godfrey’s room. No bongs or off-label steroids. It was suspiciously clean, but it turned out that the athletics department paid for a maid service for the football players’ rooms.

Sherlock looked in every drawer and cabinet, every coat pocket in the closet, felt around the back of the drawer in the dorm-issue desk, and pulled out a checkbook.

Sherlock ran his fingertips over the top check and held it up at an angle to let the light rake across it. Then he flipped to the check register and flipped back to the check to inspect it further.

“One thousand dollars to Dr. Leslie Armstrong. Not recorded in the check register.”

“He’s a quack AIDS doctor,” John blurted out. He realized Sherlock was looking at him intently, like he had done something fascinating.

John hadn’t thought about Armstrong since he’d being rotating on the AIDS ward. Ward 86 in the late 80s had been a nightmare. All the other doctors were so excited to be there, at the absolute bleeding edge of medicine. The ones who’d been there in the early 80s, who had seen acute conversion syndrome, only in retrospect realized they had been watching history get made.

But it didn’t seem personal for anyone else.

John had gone right from a prestigious Infectious Disease fellowship to stitching people back together in any God-forsaken place you could land a helicopter. And all of that violent death had been easier to take than Ward 86. There’d been a flirty blond nurse who’d kept trying to get him to go out for a drink, and who he had next seen on the wrong side of the clipboard, getting IV antibiotics for pneumonia.

John pushed all that away, and said, “We saw a lot of his patients at Ward 86.”

The coach looked shocked, and started denying that any football player on his team could possibly be HIV positive.

Sherlock stopped him. “I am more concerned,” he said, “that a student may be being blackmailed. Let me see the surveillance tapes.”

The tapes were grainy and glitchy and were only from one camera in the front hall of the dorm. But when they looked at the footage from the night before, they saw a man who was obviously Godfrey rushing down the stairs to meet with two guys who looked like bikers. John’s first thought was a drug deal gone wrong, but another few seconds of tape and John realized they were leathermen and not Hell’s Angels. He snuck a look at Sherlock, who caught his eye before turning back to Overton. John felt himself flushing. He’d spent a long time flying under the radar and he could see that the more time he spent with Sherlock, the harder that was going to be.

Overton was still oblivious. “Those men are Hell’s Angels!” He was turning red again. “Godfrey, what have you gotten yourself tangled up with!”

They all watched as the Godfrey in the tape left with the two men.

Sherlock said crisply, “Well, Mr. Overton, this tape has been very useful. I will follow up on some leads, and I will be in touch soon. I will send you an invoice with my fee. Thank you for bringing this interesting case to my attention.” He turned on his heel and left and John scrambled after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes (updated):
> 
> After Combination Therapy was introduced, Ward 86 transformed from an inpatient clinic focusing on end of life care to an outpatient clinic. I was a graduate student working at SFGH in the late 90s, and I think that the clinic was outpatient by 1998, but I'm still trying to find a reference to confirm that.
> 
> Read more about Ward 86 here: [SFGH's Ward 86: Pioneering HIV/AIDS Care for 30 Years](https://www.ucsf.edu/news/2011/06/9988/sfghs-ward-86-pioneering-hiv-aids-care-30-years) and [Ward 86](https://ari.ucsf.edu/clinical-care/ward-86).
> 
> You may also want to check out Mark Jacobson's novel _Sensing Light_
> 
> This story is set in 1996. Combivir (the first fixed dose combination therapy for HIV) came on the market in 1997. The first two protease inhibitors (saquinavir and ritonavir) were approved by the FDA in 1996. Within 2 years of the approval of the first protease inhibitors, AIDS deaths had dropped dramatically.
> 
> For a perspective on HIV treatment, including quack treatments, before protease inhibitors, I recommend David Wojnarowicz's _Close to the Knives_ and Brad Gooch's _Smashcut_


	7. Chapter 7

They took a cab back to San Francisco. And somehow that was the thing that made Sherlock seem rich. A $40 cab ride when BART was still running.

In the cab, Sherlock said, “I need to talk to the owner of the Eagle tomorrow. He actually cares about celebrity gossip, and he owes me a favor. Meet me there at 2.” John thought about refusing. He did not want to walk into The Eagle in broad daylight with someone so obviously gay.. But also didn’t want to seem defensive.

“Sure, John said. "Just give me the address.”

Sherlock gave him a long, dubious look and then wrote down the address on the back of a business card and handed it over.

When they got back to John’s, Sherlock said, “I’m serious about the room. It’s yours if you want it. This place is a fire trap. Stay over tonight. We can talk about it over dinner.” John hummed noncommittally. Getting out of the SRO was probably a good idea. It was a little too easy to imagine dying in a halogen light related fire. Or maybe a hot pot related fire. Probably after he started hoarding newspapers.

But after so many months of stagnation, things seemed to be moving too fast.


	8. Chapter 8

John slept badly, and in the morning, his piss-in-the-sink hotel room looked even more depressing than usual. Cottage cheese ceiling and lumpy paint. The windows were dirty and greasy. And, John realized when he woke up that he’d somehow left his cane in Sherlock’s office.

He went to the Civic Center library to see if he could dig up anything about Sherlock Holmes on the world wide web. It was a weird enough name that Yahoo! actually turned something up. A geocities page about tobacco ash. John wasn’t sure if that made him seem more or less like a legitimate private eye.

Then, against his better judgement, he made his way down to Folsom Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The new Civic Center branch of the San Francisco Public Library, which did have free access to the internet, opened in April 1996


	9. Chapter 9

John hadn’t been to the Eagle in a long time. And never when he was sober. It had been one more stop on the R&R circuit. Always late, with a few select friends, after the new recruits were drunk and distracted enough not to notice them splitting off. So his memories of the Eagle were kind of a blur.

This early in the day it was brighter and emptier, less overheated and loud. He wondered if Sherlock came here often. And had a sudden jolt of panic that maybe he’d met Sherlock before under other circumstances.

He sat down at the bar to wait, and wondered if it was too early for a drink.

There was a kid at the other end of the bar dressed exactly like Sal Mineo in _Rebel without a Cause_ , down to the black vest and the brown velveteen jacket. Which was weird, but also kind of hot. _Rebel without a Cause_ had definitely been a formative film in John’s early adolescence. Suddenly feeling underdressed, John pulled off his lumpy sweater and tugged at his T-shirt to smooth it out.

John snuck another look at the kid at the end of the bar. He was talking to the bartender, and motioning towards John. John looked back at them, refusing to flinch away. The bartender poured a shot of whiskey and brought it to John. “From your friend at the end of the bar.” John lifted the glass to his “friend” and took a sip.

The guy was undeniably hot, lithe and striking. But John was supposed to meeting Sherlock, not flirting with weird guys at two in the afternoon. Then the guy winked, and John realized who it was.

Sherlock walked around the bar to stand next to John. He leaned in and asked, “John, has anyone ever told you you have face blindness?”

“You are an asshole,” John growled. But as he said it, he had to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “What the fuck. I know I’m not the best with faces, but normal people don’t wear fucking disguises on a random Tuesday.”

“The dress code here is quite strict,” Sherlock said a little defensively. “I got kicked out once for wearing a feather boa.”

John wondered again about having seen Sherlock before in some back room. But now instead of filling him with anxious shame, it seemed like a very appealing fantasy. The shape of Sherlock’s mouth. His magician’s hands. And then it hit him.

“Wait,” said John, “did you follow me to that porn theater?”

“John, I’m a private eye,” was all the confirmation Sherlock gave him.

John felt his anger rising again. “You were the first person to smile at me in months, and it was all a con?”

Sherlock frowned a little. “No, John. I was watching you. But you weren’t supposed to notice me.” He took a step closer into John’s personal space, and said _sotto voce_ , “I didn’t mean to look at you like that.”

John realized he was staring up at Sherlock. God, he was beautiful. John felt bowled down by it.

But Sherlock drew back from the intensity of that look. “You should know,” he said, “that I’m married to my work.”

John barked out a laugh. “Seriously?”

Sherlock looked unsure for a moment, and then said a little primly. “I am trying to be less easily distracted.” Then after a pause he said quietly, “Ask me again when we solve the case.”

Then Sherlock whirled around and disappeared out the door. By the time John caught up with him, he was getting into a cab.


	10. Chapter 10

Dr Leslie Armstrong’s waiting room had a handful of people in it, and John felt a wave of claustrophobia. That old fear of being on the wrong side of the doctor-patient relationship. Which had only gotten worse after his three months in the hospital with an infected gun-shot wound.

In the cab, Sherlock had told him that the bartender knew the two men in the surveillance video, but had never heard anything about Staunton being gay. So right now their best lead was Armstrong.

Sherlock had combed back his hair, buttoned his top button, and straightened his tie. He was transformed. The slicked back hair made him look about ten years older, and the vest and tie that had looked like a weird affectation at The Eagle now made him look like a police detective.

Sherlock went to the receptionist’s desk. John could only hear the tone which was serious and weighted with authority. The receptionist seemed a little overawed and disappeared into the back room. A couple minutes later, Dr Armstrong came out of his office and looked Sherlock up and down.

“As you know,” Sherlock started, “Godfrey Staunton is missing.” Unlike the receptionist, Armstrong seemed to have taken in the lack of a holster and a badge and didn’t seem particularly impressed with Sherlock, but Sherlock pushed on. “And I strongly believe that you know where he is.”

“And as you already know,” Armstrong replied coldly, “without a warrant, I cannot answer any questions about who may or may not be a patient of mine. I need to ask you to leave right now.”

Sherlock turned to leave, and then stopped. “Do I smell wild fennel pollen? Is that what your quack treatment is? Fennel?”

“If you had read my published works, you would know that _Foeniculum vulgare_ has been shown to have immune boosting properties. Now leave, before I call the police.”


	11. Chapter 11

When they got back to Sherlock’s office, the message light on the big corporate looking phone on the desk was blinking. Sherlock ignored it and called someone named Irene. He told her he needed to borrow Pompey, then cut off whatever she said in reply.

Sherlock took off his jacket, then the vest, threw them on his desk, pulled off his tie, unbuttoned the top three buttons on his too tight shirt and ran his hand through his slicked back hair, loosening his curls. “That vest,” he said, leaning against his desk, and tipping his head to either side to crack his neck, “is incredibly itchy.”

John realized he was staring at the pale V of Sherlock’s neck, and looked away.

Sherlock started rummaging around through the jars and bottles on the bookshelf. Holding them up to the light, smelling them, and pulling antique looking books off the shelves, creating a precarious pile of clothing and open books on the desk.

John had to admit, Sherlock really did seem married to his work. He thought about going back to his room in Tenderloin, but it was too depressing, and he wanted to see where things went with Sherlock’s case. And, he had to admit, he liked being around Sherlock, even if he wasn’t sure what that meant. He looked around the room for something to do, and found a stack of true crime novels against one wall. He pulled out a hardcover copy of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and sat down to read it.

A couple hours later, the intercom buzzed. Sherlock looked out the window and pressed the buzzer. The woman who opened the door was wearing a leather trench coat and stiletto heels, red lipstick and her hair in shiny black waves. John tried and failed to image the looks she’d gotten walking down Haight Street.

Sherlock said, “Irene, John. John, Irene,” and reached out to take her coat. She flicked her eyes over John, then turned her focus back to Sherlock, and gracefully took off her coat. Underneath, she was wearing a skin tight cream dress, shiny and almost see-through. Sherlock waved her towards a chair.

“Nice hair, Sherlock,” Irene said sarcastically. “Are you on a case?” Sherlock shrugged, as though the answer were obvious.

“How about you?” Sherlock shot back. “Do you have a new client in New York?” Irene raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock said. “The dress. It’s a couture piece by Baroness Latex. You must be spending a lot of time in New York on business to get a custom piece fitted.”

John looked at Irene’s dress again. Knowing it was latex, he could suddenly smell it. Like condoms and talc. It was completely see-through in a couple places: her breast, the flat of her stomach, her hips. He looked away quickly before he could be caught staring.

Irene, still pouting that Sherlock had deduced her so easily, said, “One of these days I’m just going to show up naked, and then we’ll see how much you can deduce. Are you sure I can’t convince you to come play with us at the dungeon, Sherlock?”

John found himself really not liking Irene.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said tartly.

“But, Sherlock,” she said, her voice gone wheedling, “we could have so much fun. Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. I could dress as a boy….”

Sherlock scowled at her. “Are you going to lend me Pompey or not?”

“I haven’t decided. I’ve got my own problems, Sherlock. Catherine and I are being blackmailed.” Irene said Catherine with a French accent and turned to John to say, “My wife.”

John was still trying to process “wife.” He’d never imagined that a lesbian could look like that, when Sherlock cut in, “By your New York business partner?” Irene gave him an annoyed look that said _Always the smarty pants_ , and stood up and started pacing, her heels clicking on the floor.

“Yes. Marty, Cat, and I were going to set up a school for subs. Something between Bemelmen’s Madeline and DeSimone’s Reform School Girls. We went out to New York with a group of promising applicants, and it was a disaster. We went to Po, and he told the waiter he didn’t want anything with garlic. He used astrology to screen the applicants. He hadn’t even started looking for a building. He just wanted a bunch of twenty year olds to come suck his cock while he did their star charts.

“Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock. Someone’s got to pay the bills. We don’t all have the luxury of doing it _pro bono_.” She gave a little curl of her lip, like she was purposely leaving it unsaid what exactly Sherlock was doing _pro bono_.

“So, I told him the deal was off. And, no, I wasn’t going to pay him back for his sunk costs.

“And he said he would out Cat as a sex worker. Said he had enough to get her arrested for trafficking. She works with HIV positive runaways. They would never let her work with kids with a sex crime on her record.

“But there’s something fishy about Marty’s finances. I thought there might be enough there to hold him at bay.”

Sherlock nodded curtly, and said, “Give me everything you have. Any checks, faxes, phone bills, credit card receipts, and I’ll find something. But I do need to borrow Pompey.”

“Sherlock, are you becoming a dog person? Maybe you’re feeling the urge to settle down?” Irene looked over meaningfully at John, and John tried to ignored her.

“I’m looking for a patient of Dr Armstrong’s who’s gone missing.”

“Oh shit,” Irene was suddenly serious. “OK. I’ll ask Cat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of dialog taken from Ariane Devere's amazing transcripts: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/26397.html
> 
> My characterization of Irene in partially inspired by Ilsa Strix, who is now married to Lana Wachowski.
> 
> I'm imagining Irene in Persephone's dress from Matrix Reloaded: http://www.matrixfans.net/interview-with-roger-tait-costume-cutter-australia-from-the-matrix-reloaded-2003/#sthash.3yj24fey.dpbs
> 
> I don't think Baroness Latex ever made a dress like that; I was just looking for a plausible brand for Sherlock to name drop.
> 
> “Marty” is inspired by Martin Frankel, a white collar criminal who apparently used astrology to make investment decisions
> 
> Irene's wife Catherine works for the Department of Public Health but her job is very hand-wavy and mostly to move the plot along, so I apologize to anyone who actually works for the SFDPH.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I had somehow not posted Chapter 2, so I posted it yesterday, and the total chapter count is now 15.

As she left the phone started ringing. Sherlock leaned over the phone and pressed the speaker button, his finger to his lips in warning to John, “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

The man on the line started yelling before Sherlock had finished. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing. You can’t blackmail me.”

“Mr Overton,” Sherlock’s voice was cold. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I just got a tip that you are trying to dig up dirt on Staunton. He is not gay! There is no such thing as a gay football player! You’re off the case.”

“Mr Overton, if you want me off of your case, that’s fine. But now it’s my case. And there’s nothing you can do about that.”

“You can’t do that. I’ll have you arrested.”

“Good day, Mr Overton.” Sherlock hung up the phone while the coach was still spluttering.

John looked over at Sherlock. “Do you always have so many people threatening to call the cops on you?”

“Neither Overton nor Armstrong,” Sherlock said, sounding prickly and precise, “have any interest in getting the police involved. So I don’t think I’m in any immediate danger.” Then he gave a sly look, “But, yeah, I do rub people the wrong way.”

Sherlock turned away and started turning on various lamps around the office. It was now dark out, and the lamps created a soft golden glow, like they were alone in the world in a little bubble of light and heat.

Sherlock’s white shirt had a European cut and followed the contours of Sherlock’s lithe body. Even for a European shirt, it was still clearly tighter that it was meant to be; the buttons strained a little as Sherlock reached up to pull a book of the shelf. It was one of the most beautiful things John had ever seen.

With all the running after Sherlock he’d been doing today, he hadn’t had a chance to really think about the fact that the kid whose memory he’d been jerking off to for a month was Sherlock. Right before Overton arrived, he’d been thinking that Sherlock was really not his type. But Sherlock was clearly exactly his type. All of his types. Part pretty hustler boy, part aesthete in a fussy suit, and part off-work detective.

Sherlock caught his eye and smiled. “Do you want a drink?”

“That depends,” John said, trying to sound suave but his throat was so dry it came out as a croak.

Sherlock pushed himself away from his desk and stalked into John’s space. “Depends on what?”

“Whether we’d have to leave the apartment.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave a knowing smile. “I hadn’t gotten the impression that privacy was your highest priority.”

“How about you? I thought you were married to you work.”

Sherlock winced. “I panicked. I was kind of a mess when I was younger.”

John flashed back to Sherlock’s bleach splattered jeans the first night he’d met him, and wondered if that’s what he meant.

“I’m still trying to figure out how to ...” Sherlock flapped his hand, for once, at a loss for words.

John couldn’t bear to see Sherlock looking so unsure. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck to pull him down for a kiss. Sherlock opened his mouth to the kiss, and kissed John back with assurance. John wasn’t sure when he’d last kissed a man like this: sober, during the day, someone whose name and face he remembered.

John thought back to the porn theater, and Sherlock’s smile, and he flushed with arousal, the Pavlovian response to all of all those nights in bed with his own hand. But here was Sherlock in the flesh. Six feet of wiry muscle wrapped in a tailored shirt, smelling like cigarettes and sweat and hair pomade.

Sherlock pulled back.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock biting his lip, his eyes full of mischief. “Can I?”

It took John a moment to catch up to what Sherlock was asking.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, this is the chapter where the fic earns its Explicit rating.

Sherlock got down on his knees and unbuckled John’s belt with a practiced movement. John’s dick was uncomfortably hard, but he didn’t reach down to adjust. He let Sherlock set his own, excruciating slow, pace.

Sherlock unzipped John’s fly and pulled his pants down only far enough that he could rub his cheek against John’s cock. Then he pulled down John’s briefs, and sat back on his heels, apparently admiring John’s cock. He leaned in and took the head in his mouth for a couple shallow sucks before pushing forward and letting the head of John’s cock hit his soft palate. Sherlock hummed a muffled moan, his mouth full of cock, and John’s dick twitched in sympathy. Sherlock looked amazing sucking cock, all cheekbones and messy hair, still wearing his white shirt. John ran his thumb down the side of Sherlock’s face, feeling where his jaw was open.

Sherlock gave very good head, but John wanted something more. There had been a lot of years of drunken back room blow jobs, and maybe the drunkenness was the problem, but also it left John too much space to think. What he liked was getting fucked. To have everything pushed out of his head by his body. John knew he was overthinking, but he couldn’t get lost in the moment. It was right on the tip of his tongue to say Fuck me, but the words wouldn't come out.

Sherlock pulled off. “You seem distracted. What do you want?”

“I want,” John said, then took a breath. “I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock, still on his knees, looked up at him with a kind of reverence. He stood up, and kissed John deeply. Then jerked his head towards one of the doors. John pulled up his pants up enough to not fall over, and followed Sherlock.

Sherlock’s room was small and cluttered, with a _gi_ hung on the back of his closet door. His bed was a twin, piled with a tangled comforter.

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his lean, almost hairless chest, and started unbuttoning his own pants, so John did the same. He didn’t want to see his old, scarred up body next to Sherlock’s, but it felt important to be naked.

John pulled the comforter and pillows off the bed while Sherlock, still in his pants, rummaged around in a bedside table for condoms and lube, which he threw on the bed.

John grabbed Sherlock and kissed him. Ran his hand down the front of Sherlock’s pants, rubbing the length of Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock reached down and wrapped his fingers around John’s cock, not stroking, just holding him. John pulled away enough to jerk his head towards the bed, and Sherlock nodded.

John got on his hands and knees, and watched Sherlock take off his pants and then his underwear. Sherlock’s cock bounced as he walked towards the bed. John’s body was thrumming with anticipation. Sherlock settled behind him with the lube, squelching it onto his fingers, then running his slick fingers down the crack of John’s ass. Stroking, teasing. John melted into it, eyes closed.

When Sherlock pushed his slick thumb into John’s ass, John groaned. Sherlock rocked his thumb into John, and John pushed back, his dick heavy between his legs.

Sherlock pulled out his thumb and replaced it with two fingers. The touch was electric. Sherlock fucked into him with his fingers, those beautiful nimble fingers that John had been so fixated on the day before. John started shaking, overwhelmed and wanting more. Sherlock pushed in three fingers, and John was vibrating with sensation. Then Sherlock pulled his fingers out, ripped open the condom wrapper and rolled the condom on. John was strung tight with anticipation, and when he felt the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock pushing against the ring of his ass, he pushed back into it, feeling every inch opening him up.

The stretch was sharp and visceral. Exhilarating. Pushing him past the pain and towards the point where it was only pleasure.

Sherlock fucked him steadily. John smashed his face into the mattress and the world beyond the bed disappeared. He was floating in sensation. He felt a wave of wonder that his body could do this; like running in 110 degree heat, or doing push-ups until his muscles failed, he felt pushed beyond his normal limits. And also wonder that it was Sherlock’s body making him feel this good.

Sherlock leaned over him, his hair tickling the back John’s neck. Sherlock’s panting breath was in John’s ear. He whispered, “Touch yourself,” and John wrapped his hand around his cock. His cock was so hard, it was almost too much, but he was chasing more, his orgasm building. Sherlock kissed the back of his neck, half kiss half bite, and John groaned and dropped his head down. John could hear how turned on Sherlock was, how close to coming, and that was what pushed him over the edge. His orgasm hit like dam breaking, and Sherlock fucked him harder, caught up in his own impending orgasm.

Sherlock was making breathy little moans, and John felt proud that he was the one making Sherlock feel good. Their bodies were pushed together, slick with sweat, Sherlock’s chest sliding against John’s back as they moved together. He thrust deeper. Once. Twice. And then he came, pressing his body into John’s as he tensed and shivered. John sank down onto his stomach and Sherlock kissed the back of his neck one more time before reaching down to hold the condom and pull out.

Sherlock flopped onto the bed and put out an arm for John to roll onto. Sherlock reeked of sex, and John nuzzled into his armpit, breathing in the sharp smell of his sweat. The bed was narrow, and John was lying in the wet spot, but he took a couple deep breaths, letting his heart rate get back to normal, before squirming away from Sherlock and stumbling towards the bathroom.

Sherlock washed up and they curled up, both still a little damp in the narrow bed. John was sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep like that, but he felt heavy and wrung out, pleasantly exhausted. And he slid easily into sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

John woke up in Sherlock’s bed, to the sound of voices in the office. Two women and Sherlock.

Sherlock was back at work, and the little bubble of intimacy seemed to have evaporated. John wasn’t sure what he wanted from Sherlock. What he could ask from someone who was trying to be, and maybe was, married to his work.

But still John felt a flutter of excitement. Like anything was possible. Like he was eighteen again and willing to throw himself against anyone he thought was interesting. To hotwire intimacy with sex even if it ended up breaking his heart.

John steeled himself to leave the room, and to see Sherlock subsumed in his work. One of the women’s voices sounded French. It must be Irene and Catheribne, and he got the impression they knew Sherlock well enough to know, as soon as John opened the door, which bedroom he was coming out of. But John really needed to piss. He was just going to have to man up. He pulled his clothes back on, opened the door, waved a quick hello to all, and ducked into the bathroom.

He opened the bathroom door expecting smirks and raised eyebrows, but all he got was Sherlock looking up through his eyelashes to give him a shy smile, and John smiled back. Sherlock asked, “Coffee?”

John was about to stick out his hand for a mug when he saw the Erlenmeyer flask full of coffee on Sherlock’s desk. “No thanks.”

Sherlock shrugged and flapped his hand between John and a petite woman with a severe, asymmetric bob. “John, Catherine. Catherine, John.” They nodded at each other.

John looked over at Irene. He was expecting her to make a production out of his coming out of Sherlock’s bedroom, but she was too busy berating Sherlock. “You would have no idea what to do with a bloodhound. I don’t care how many Victorian reference books you read yesterday.” She swept her arm towards the pile of books on his desk. “Stop showing off. You’re such a fucking drama queen.”

Sherlock seemed incredibly affronted, and probably didn’t realize how camp the face he made was.

John smiled.

Catherine chimed in in what was presumably French.

Sherlock snapped back in French, and then Catherine switched to English. “Seriously. You forget. This is my job. I know where Dr. Armstrong stashes his so called patients.”

Sherlock relented and let Catherine lead the way. The four of them squeezed into a cab, and Catherine gave an address not that far from John’s SRO in the Tenderloin.

Catherine led them past the front desk. Her Department of Public Health ID got them all past the attendant. And up through the labyrinthine hallways to room 421, where Catherine knocked sharply three times. “This is Catharine Lavigne from the Department of Public Health. May I come in?”

A man’s voice from inside the room called, “One moment.”

And a minute later, the door was opened by a kid who was built like a football player. Godfrey from the surveillance tape. His eyes were red-rimmed, and behind him a gaunt man was lying in a narrow bed. John hadn’t gotten much further than thinking that the room actually had a lot more natural light than his SRO did, when he heard Sherlock behind him muttering, “I’m slipping. I should have figured that out.”

Catherine ignored Sherlock’s mini crisis and reached out her hand. “Godfrey?”

The young man shook it dazedly. “What’s this about?” he asked.

“Dr. Leslie Armstrong is being investigated for fraudulent AIDS treatments, and we found evidence that you had been paying him significant amounts of money. We have spots reserved in an experimental protease inhibitor treatment program, but it looks like it was your partner who is the patient?”

Irene turned around and glared at Sherlock and John, making shooing motions with her hand.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him back down the hallway.

Sherlock seemed lost in his own thoughts, but John pulled him out onto the street.

“Sherlock. Seriously. That was amazing. You rescued someone from Dr Armstrong. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t the person you were looking for.

Sherlock gave him a shy smile.

“And,” John, smiling, said, “I think you owe me breakfast.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! I started this fic 4 years ago in a haze of breastfeeding and exhaustion, and I just couldn't smash all the plot bunnies into an actual story. It's a huge relief to have it now be a finished fic out in the world.
> 
> Many thanks to Anarfea and Queertrees. And thank you to the Fandom Trumps Hate folks for all of their work organizing the 2018 auction.


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